


Did you see an oliphaunt, with tusks instead of teeth?

by rabbitinthewoods



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, There is mention of blood and such, and also three, because there is a bit of a fight in chapter two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitinthewoods/pseuds/rabbitinthewoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autumn turns the world burnished gold and rust red, and sometimes he dreams of bringing an adventure right to the heart of the Shire, just to shake things up. Would do all these stick-in-the-muds some much needed good.</p>
<p>He does not anticipate said adventure actually occurring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There is a bit of an incident.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot decide whether this is BoFA canon compliant, or if it's all sunshine and happiness and everyone lives. Hopefully it's ambiguous enough in text that you can make up you're own mind, but it may become more concrete later.
> 
> Criticism welcome!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cousin Bilbo! Cousin Bilbo, are you there?”
> 
> Oh bother, he thinks to himself, and resigns himself to a delayed meal.

One day, while the sky is blue and the sun pleasantly warm, there is an auction.

Then the apparently deceased is not so deceased, and there is no longer an auction but instead a great deal of confusion, not a mild spot of panic, and a story that shall last more than nine and ninety days.

Bilbo Baggins, as well as breathing perfectly well, thank you, is rather caught between annoyance and amusement.

He is also rather undecided about what, exactly, he should tell people.

“It was an adventure. You know, a lot of walking, good exercise, not as many meals as one would wish, that sort of thing.” Is what he tells a group of inquisitive fauntlings one day. It is perhaps not quite the truth, but it is not quite lying either. He _is_ rather trimmer than a year ago.

This mild explanation does not satisfy their enthusiastic minds. “Did you see an oliphaunt?” They ask him. "With tusks instead of teeth?"

“Well no, I didn’t.” They look disappointed. “I did see a dragon though. And his teeth were quite big enough for my taste.”

That incites squeals and screams, and a dozen more questions and farcical imaginings. When he heads down to market the next day, there are some fauntlings play-fighting in a garden nearby. One of them seems to be breathing rather dramatically. Bilbo is given a very severe frown by his uncle, Bodo Proudfoot.

Oh dear.

Things continue in this vein, quite against Bilbo’s wishes, for several months. The name ‘Mad Baggins’ begins to circulate in force, and other hobbits are no longer quite so sure of him. It is as if he has contracted some highly infectious disease, and no-one knows if he is cured of it or not. It is, he thinks, entirely ridiculous.

_It is little wonder that mother developed a sharp tongue and a thick hide._

_Little wonder father was so fearful for me, when I was at my wildest. Son of a Took indeed!_

Autumn turns the world burnished gold and rust red, and turns one Baggins a little melancholic. He keeps telling stories to those who ask for them, determined not to be cowed by frowning society, and sometimes he dreams of bringing an adventure right to the heart of the Shire, just to shake things up. Would do all these stick-in-the-muds some much needed good.

He does not anticipate said adventure actually occurring.

* * *

There is a thunderous knocking at his door. He is currently very invested in consuming a  _delicious_ second breakfast, and considers ignoring his caller.

Yet, it was _quite_ thunderous.

But it was a very good cheese.

Hm...

His pondering is forestalled by more knocking, and a panicked voice.

“Cousin Bilbo! Cousin Bilbo, are you there?”

_Oh bother,_ he thinks to himself, and resigns himself to a delayed meal. His caller keeps yelling as he gets up and comes into the hall.

“Only – only there is a bit of an incident, Cousin Bilbo, an _incident_ , and they’re being very unreasonable, and no-one – no-one at all, Cousin Bilbo, knows what to do – oh!”

This last exclamation is said as Bilbo pulls open his door to reveal young Ponto Baggins, and the poor lad almost falls inside. Bilbo helps him regain his feet, frowning at the lad’s redness of face and shortness of breath. He must have run all the way up the hill.

“Calm down, calm down. What’s all this talk about an incident, then?” He asks, expecting an escaped flock of prize geese or a pig having a temper tantrum in front of the Green Dragon.

Ponto takes a few deep breaths. “Dwarves! They’re causing a ruckus!”

Well, when are they not –

Wait.

“Dwarves? What dwarves?”

“Down in Hobbiton proper. They’re being rude, and they made Mr Cotton cry, and everyone knows you had dealings with dwarves so they want you to come and deal with it before they trail mud everywhere and ruin the neighbourhood and eat all our livestock and –”

Good gracious, Ponto has been listening to salacious gossip it seems. “Alright, Ponto, I’ll come. Though I give no guarantee they’ll listen to me better than anyone else.”

“They will. Mum said they had too!” Bilbo doesn’t correct him; who is he to gainsay a boy’s mother?

When the pair of them make it down to the centre of town, Bilbo finds Ponto’s estimation of a ‘ruckus’ is not far off the mark.

“Look, the price is what it is –”

Oh dear –

“And it is unacceptable –”

– there appear to be pitchforks –

“We cannot charge any less –”

– and hefty frying pans –

“Well, _we_ shall not pay any _more_ –”

– not to mention the dwarven weaponry –

“Fine! It’s no skin off our noses, you soft-footed –”

– and it’s really going –

“Milk drinkers –”

– to end –

“Confounded barbarians –”

– badly.

Unless he stops it now. “Enough!” He is ignored.

“Ignorant green-grocers –”

Really. “I said, ENOUGH.”

There is silence. With a contingent of dwarves and a rag-tag mob of hobbits all staring at him, it is not a pleasant silence. He coughs awkwardly.

“Now look here,” he says, “there is no need for such rudeness. I’m sure we can sort this out civilly.”

One of the hobbits, Nina Bolger, puffs herself up and waves her cleavers knife. “Civilly, Bilbo? These dwarves are anything but civil, as you have seen!”

“Now Nina, please.” He coughs again. “Would someone like to tell me, with as few unnecessary insults as possible, exactly what is going on?”

The explanation he gets is not wholly without rudeness, from both sides, but he feels as if he is getting a fuller picture.

As it turns out, the dwarves are from the Blue Mountains, and are trying to get supplies for a journey east.

“We need food, drink and camping gear.” They tell him grudgingly. “And we have little money to do so.”

“That’s all very well,” the hobbits reply, “but they’ve not been courteous about getting it!”

There is some grumbling and rattling of weapons, and before Bilbo can say a word of warning the dwarves are all shouting again, shoving forward inch by inch.

“Now see here –” he says, but they ignore him, even as he stands between them and his kin, a minute barricade. _I am no dwarf,_ he thinks, _I’m probably not thought worth the attention_.

Oh. Now there’s an idea.

“Shazara!” He shouts, feet planted wide and his hands shoving at broad chests. “ _Silence!_ ”

They stop. Their weapons are lowed, and Bilbo can read amazement on the faces of those dwarves closest to him.

“Now see here –” he says again.

“You speak khuzdul?”

Right. Secret language and all that. _Quick, say something before the shock wears off._

He speaks with all the authority of a mature hobbit lecturing a naive fauntling. “Well, of course. I did travel with some dwarves for quite a while, and I was bound to pick a few words up.” The staring continues. “Not a great deal, obviously, I understand it’s very precious to you,” he adds hastily, “but some things were necessary, you know, when to duck and when to run, that kind of thing.”

They look at him sceptically. He can feel the population of Hobbiton behind him, holding their collective breath.

“When to run?”

“Yes. Usually from orcs. Rather an unpleasant occupational hazard.”

Some of the dwarves share looks, the import of which escapes Bilbo. A grey bearded dwarf to his left lowers his brows (Her brows? Dwarf gender is difficult to tell) and gravely intones. “And who did you travel with?”

“Oh, well, there were thirteen dwarves, and a wizard, when he felt like staying around, and me. Let’s see, there were Dori, Nori and Ori, they were brothers, and Bombur and Bofur, also brothers, and their cousin Bifur, and Balin and Dwalin, brothers, and cousins to the other brothers Óin and Glóin, and both of those lots were of course related to Thorin and his sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli, cousins, the lot of them. The wizard was Gandalf, you know, tall fellow, wears grey, wanders off all the time and reappears at fortuitous moments. Then me, Bilbo Baggins, company, err, burglar. Though I didn’t really steal anything. Much.”

The grey bearded dwarf has his mouth open like a gaping fish. Most improper.

“Do any of those names sound familiar?” He asks, to try and salvage the dwarves’ dignity. “I suppose Thorin should, he’s a king after all.”

The dwarves all suddenly turn in on themselves, and mutter in low and hurried tones. Phrases like ‘Oakenshield’, ‘dragon’ and ‘kill the lot of us’ are briefly heard before the speakers are harshly shushed. Bilbo turns back to the other hobbits, and shrugs. They shrug tentatively back.

There is a tugging at his arm. It’s Ponto.

“Did you really know a king?” He asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“What was he like?”

Bilbo ponders for a moment. “Very regal, and very sad. And he could get quite grumpy, too.”

Ponto looks at the dwarves, still whispering heatedly among themselves, then at the hobbits waiting behind them. “Oh.”

Bilbo waits. Time can be the best elucidator, he’s found.

Ponto squints up at him. “Doesn’t sound at all like the Thain.”

“No, he doesn’t, does he?”

“Sounds like...sounds like the older hobbits. Who’ve lost a husband, or, or a wife. And they’re just so _sad_. Not even the sun or – or blooming flowers make them happy.” He sniffs.

“I think you’re on to something there, my lad.” They are quiet after that, watching the dwarves argue and the hobbits mutter.

Eventually the dwarves subside, and one turns to Bilbo, beckoning him forward. Bilbo goes. They talk, and sometimes one or another dwarf interjects, adding extra information. They are all very apologetic.

“It’s alright,” Bilbo tells them, “we’re strangers, and you’re strangers, and neither hobbits nor dwarves are peoples that get on well with strangers. Just...apologise to everyone else, will you?”

They do, and though Nina Bolger keeps a firm grip on her meat cleaver most of the other hobbits nod, and sniff derisively, and wander off now all the excitement has stopped. Bilbo talks to some of the merchants, and arranges a tab for the use of the dwarves, to be charged to him. The dwarves object strenuously.

“Put your pride aside for one second, will you?” He chides. “Besides, you shall be paying us back, once you get to wherever you’re going. I’m sure there’s some kind of goods or craft you can trade to us hobbits. I hear dwarves are very good at making toys.”

“Oh,” exclaims one tall, blond fellow, “we are! You’ll not find cleverer toys, or ones more fun, mark my words!”

That gets the attention of those hobbits with small children, and many of those without. A loose trade contract is arranged, with Bilbo as observer and adjudicator. It all works out rather well, in the end.

The next day, the group of dwarves leaves Hobbiton, and Bilbo waves them over the horizon. It is only later that he realizes he never asked them where they were heading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be all humorous, the Ponto started asking somber questions.
> 
> Shazara - Khuzdul for 'silence'.  
> Soft-footed - inspired by an insult Bilbo uses in Chapter 19 of Burned to a Cinder by ferretbaby.


	2. We never found the spiders, or the dragon hoard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His young cousin tilts his head to glance down at him. “Oh,” he winces “Bilbo, it’s you. Fancy that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hobbit names that you don't recognize are probably ones I made up.  
> There is some violence in this chapter, and the gore that brings. It's only mild, but fair warning.

A few weeks later, some of his younger Took cousins ask him if he wants to go on another adventure.

No thank you, he tells them.

But Bilbo –

No, dragons and orcs and a nasty fight is quite enough adventure for one lifetime, do you want some tea?

But it’s just up to Bindbole wood –

That’s not an adventure, that’s a walk. The breakfast tea or the earl grey?

Earl grey. And it’s not just a walk, there will be tree climbing and dragon hoards and spider fighting –

Nonsense. There are no dragon hoards this side of the mountains. Besides which, I’m not coming.

You’re such a spoil sport, Bilbo.

Hush, and drink your tea.

* * *

A day or so after his cousins come calling, and Bilbo’s feet begin to itch. He has been so caught up in getting all his things back and restoring Bag End to what it was when he left that he has not had as much time for pleasure as he might like.

Perhaps a walking holiday will do him good. And Bindbole wood is lovely at this time of year.

Hm.

Before he can doubt himself, he makes up a pack, finds his good walking stick and cloak and tells young Hamfast Gamgee that he’ll not be around for a week or so. Then around lunch time, after a good meal, he begins a very leisurely walk northwards.

It is sunny, and with the soft chill of autumn not yet having given way to the bite of winter it’s also temperate enough that he can walk clad only in light clothing. The strange melancholy that swept over him with autumn’s arrival begins to weaken. He makes his way past Overhill, and by late afternoon he can see the edge of the wood. It’s good to be out of doors again.

He spends his first day in Bindbole wood wandering in no particular direction, taking notes of plants he sees and doing rough sketches of his surroundings in charcoal and pencil. He camps on soft grass, eats heartily of his own rations and the wildlife around him; some of the autumn berries are still about, and he does his best to construct a rudimentary rabbit trap. He gazes at the stars before he sleeps, and rises in the morning before the dawn so he can watch the slow encroachment of the sun over the fair lands of his home.

It is...good. He feels fuller, somehow. Not in food, though there is plenty enough of that, but in spirit. It is as if there is a hole that has been made, sometime between his hurried run toward the east last year and his more sedate return, and he is only just now discovering how to fill it. He shall have to take walking holidays more often. It is proving a splendid idea.

On the second day of his holiday, he heads north a bit, picking up leaves and noting the variance in shape, content with his slow pace. The birds are particularly active in their morning songs today.

And some of them sound awfully strange.

He scrunches up his nose, but decides to pay no mind to it. It’s not worth getting in a tizzy over.

Those tracks, however...

He couches down, running his hand over the ground lightly and following with his eyes the way his mother taught him. The grass is bent, the earth compacted by feet. Moving forward lightly, he tries to work out exactly what passed this way.

He finds a broach. It is silver, with a knot pattern on the front and a sturdy steel pin on the back. He recognises it.

The pin is bent, as if it was torn off. Oh dear.

The tracks are not clear enough for him to tell what made them, so he decides to follow them. Maybe he’ll find the culprit up ahead. Worry beginning to prick at his heart, he picks up his pace, and soon finds himself looking up at a very peculiar sight.

“Peranius, is that you?”

His young cousin tilts his head to glance down at him. “Oh,” he winces “Bilbo, it’s you. Fancy that.”

Bilbo clenches his hands tight, and feels the pin dig painfully into his hand. “What happened lad? How on arda did you find yourself up a tree?”

Peranius laughs bitterly, but stops abruptly, clenching his side and whimpering.

“We never found the spiders,” he says quietly, “or the dragon hoard.”

“No?” Bilbo begins to lose himself out of his pack, and tries to think on how he is going to get Peranius safely down. “What did you find then?”

Peranius whimpers again, and it is a long while of coaxing and climbing before Bilbo gets his answer. In fact he doesn’t it until Peranius is safely on the ground, pale and bleeding sluggishly over fallen leaves.

“Wolves,” the boy mutters.

“Wolves.” Bilbo repeats flatly. The boy nods. “Well, you lot certainly found an adventure, didn’t you?”

He wraps Peranius up as best he can with torn strips of clothing and the string he’s been using for his rabbit traps, then feeds and waters him. Meanwhile he asks gentle questions, trying to get a fuller picture of what, exactly, happened to them all.

He does not much like the picture he receives.

_Seven Tooks, some not yet full grown, lost in a wood with wolves._ He is disgusted with himself. He should have come. He should have made them stay.

Well, you have to fix the holes you make, as his father used to say.

“Right, Peranius my lad, here’s what we’re going to do.” Peranius looks up at him, less pale now but still terribly frightened. “You can’t come with me, no, most defiantly not, so you’re going west, to Needlehole.”

Peranius protests. “But that’s ages away!”

“Not as far as Hobbiton is. Once you’re there, find a Shirrif or a Bounder, and tell them _exactly_ what you told me. And make sure they send a troop out here to help. Understand?”

The lad nods, eyes wide.

“And you’ll need to go fast, but no faster than you can. And if you have to stop, you get right back up a tree, or a rock if you’re out of the woods.” Bilbo huffs, displeased with sending a youngling off by himself, wounded no less. He fills Peranius’ pockets with food and rocks to throw in danger, wraps the lad up warm and gives him one of the two water skins Bilbo brought. He does the same with himself, and manages to get his pack secured up in a tree. Hopefully it will only be in danger of squirrels now.

“It’ll be alright, lad,” he tells Peranius as he pats him on the shoulder and sends him off, “it’ll be alright, you’ll see.” Peranius nods, and makes his way west.

As he picks up his walking stick, Bilbo hopes he hasn’t just made himself a liar.

He follows the tracks at a quick pace, trying to work out the number of different prints he can count without stopping. He can’t stop. There’s no time. It may already have run out.

The tracks take him north and east, winding and chaotic. Bilbo’s heart stops in his chest as he reaches the bottom of a rise and the tracks split. One set heads west, continuing over the wet earth, easier to read and follow. The other heads north, across rock and stone, heading ever upwards. It will be difficult to follow.

By the stars, he hates this. He draws a stone sharply across a nearby tree to mark the spot, then takes off west. Hates it, hates it.

As the ground rises to his right it becomes sheer, a cliff face, hard and unforgiving. He prays a little, prays that any hobbit feet that find themselves at the top do not slip. Prays that any at the bottom are not trapped.

There is a scream ahead, high and fearful. _Please be ok. Please._

As he draws closer he can see red painted on the undergrowth he passes, and brown and grey shapes through the trees ahead. Fur, tails. And two hobbits pressed against the cliff face, pale and low to the ground.

Bilbo picks a stone from his pocket and flings it at the nearest furry shape. As the beast falls, yelping, he bursts between the trees, bringing his walking stick in a half-moon sweep in front of him and knocking over another wolf. There is a crack, a spray of wet red upon the grass, and it does not rise.

The other three turn to him, growling, and the one felled by the stone struggles to its feet. The two hobbits, Celosia and Dahlia, stare at him in horror. Bilbo spreads his feet wide, and holds his stick in front of him defensively. It is heavy, oak banded with thick iron, and he is now immensely glad he brought it along.

He addresses the wolves. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take the opportunity to leave?”

They growl at him, and do not answer. Bilbo wonders if he has made a mistake; they are not as big as those wolves he had encountered over the Misty Mountains, and may not understand the Common tongue.

Just as he is beginning to consider other options, the largest wolf speaks, in a grunting, barking fashion.

“No,” he says, “our small things, our food.”

So they do understand. “I must apologise, but I really can’t let you eat them.”

There is more growling, and the wolves begin to circle behind him. He wants to glance up at the two hobbit girls, see if they’re alright, but he fears the wolves will leap upon him in an instant if he does.

The wolf talks again. “Ours! Ours to eat!” The rest of them howl and growl, and the hairs on Bilbo’s body rise as if trying to flee.

“No, really, I must object –” he is cut off quite suddenly, as the wolf pack leaps for him.

He has a moment to think, _Oh bother, I’m dead_ , and then he’s screaming and leaping forward himself. He catches the lead wolf in the eye with his stick, then spins away, hitting at jaws and limbs as they reach for him. Later, all he will remember is flashes of dark fur, the feel of blood on his face and an absence of noise, as if all the howling and screaming was swallowed up by the earth before it reached his ears.

Now, he is but a tumbling, whirling, extremely lucky hobbit. Where the wolves suffer cracked skulls and shattered bones, he escapes with scratches and only one deep bite, on his shoulder. It will scar later, but at the moment he is in the strange situation of both not feeling any pain and experiencing a pain so absolute and overwhelming that he cannot think on it lest he fall and be devoured. It is a strange predicament.

His limbs begin to grow heavy, but thankfully there are only two wolves left fighting; two are unmoving on the ground and one has fled, limping, into the undergrowth. He missteps, and feels himself fall backwards. One of the remaining wolves bears down upon him as he falls, and all he thinks is _I hope the girls fled._

Then there is a rush of air over his face, and something strikes the wolf in-between the eyes. As he lands the wolf lands atop him, blood and bone flying away from it like sparks. He shoves it off him, and chases down the last wolf as it attempts to flee. Swiping its legs out from under it, he presses his stick across its neck, leaning his weight upon it so it cannot get up.

“Stop moving.” It stills its flailing legs. “Now, if you don’t mind, tell me where the others are.”

It growls at him, then whines when he leans heavily upon his staff.

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

There is a moment of silence as Bilbo stares the wolf down. He briefly registers crying behind him.

“I find them for you,” the wolf says in broken Common, “I smell them for you, show you way.”

Bilbo stares at it for a second longer. “Good.” He tilts he head slightly, but does not take his eyes off the wolf. “Celosia? Dahlia? Come here, loves, let cousin Bilbo have a look at you.”

Two weeping hobbits shuffle into his vision.

“Which one of you threw that stone?” He asks. Celosia slowly raises a hand. “That was brave of you. Saved my life, too. Now, are you girls injured at all?”

“Only a little bit. We’ll be ok.” Celosia whispers.

“Well then, what you’ll need to do is get some good stones to fill your pockets with, then go west to Needlehole as fast as you’re able. I’ll try and find the others –”

“No.” Celosia’s voice is still quiet, but when Bilbo looks both girls faces are determined.

“No what?”

Celosia clears her throat, and wipes a hand across her face. “We’re not going to Needlehole.” Dahlia nods beside her. “We’re coming with you to get the others.”

Bilbo studies them. Brave indeed. “It won’t be safe, you know.”

Dahlia puts her hands on her hips, the very image of her mother. “Oh course not, that’s why we’re coming. There’s a whole lot more wolves than there where here, and you’ll need our help. No objections.”

Bilbo doesn’t give any.

They follow the wolf back towards the spot the tracks split, running as fast as they are able. Up they go, up the rocky ground, Dahlia still crying and Bilbo pale from the horror of it all.

Their guide breaks off just as they come across the others, barking at another small wolf. They dash away together, out of sight, but Bilbo hasn’t got time to worry about them now.

The fight they find themselves in is dreadful, and when all of the wolves are dead or gone Bilbo sobs for the damage done to his poor cousins. They are terrified, all of them, and so very small now in the face of such a catastrophic adventure. There is too much blood for ones so young.

He walks the six younger hobbits toward Needlehole, the group a shuddering huddle.

Dahlia walks up to him, and looks back at the others. “We’re a wreck,” she says.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies, “but you all survived. And it will get better.”

She looks at him, disbelieving.

“It will,” he promises, “it will. Trust me.”

About halfway to Needlehole, with the stench of Rushock Bog around them, they are suddenly greeted by the sight of a troop of armed hobbits. It seems the Shirrifs were told after all.

There is laughter as the two groups meet, albeit slightly hysterical. Bilbo explains as best he can, exacts promises of care and medicine for his younger cousins and then turns to the oldest Shirrif in the group. He has to finish what he started.

“Is that your knife?” He asks.

The Shirrif nods tentatively.

“Could I possibly borrow it?”

The Shirrif hands it over, and Bilbo feels the whole group staring at him as he heads back towards the wood.

He emerges a few days later, covered in drying blood and with a great, dark wolf skin draped over his shoulders. Behind him trail two scraggly wolves, nervously watching the woods.

The name ‘Mad Baggins’ fades from use. ‘Bounder Baggins’ rises in its place. He is cordially invited to join the group, and he accepts. Perhaps he’ll be able to help more ‘adventurers’.

You have to fix the holes you make, as his father used to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a nice, funny story, then I got the first chapter and the rest of the plot sorted and discovered that there was no way I could make it that. Perhaps at some point I'll write a whimsical 'Bilbo has adventures' piece, but this is not that piece.


	3. Through white and red.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shake off the uniform with the mud at the door,” a Bounder from the East Farthing tells him.
> 
> He doesn't understand. Surely he is supposed to be more serious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another warning for violence, and Bilbo not being impressed with events.

There are still hobbits who keep up some of the older traditions. Who remember those lessons the Fell Winter re-taught them. The Bounders more than most; long have they known the ways of dancing to death’s tune, ever a step ahead of their doomed partners, ever watchful of their shadowy conductor. The older traditions help them to remember the moves.

“‘The Shirebourne Rout.’ Few hundred years ago, that,” Rosa Bolger tells him. “Whole bunch of motherless-dogs tried to cross the river and entrench themselves in the woods west of Willowbottom. Weren’t actual dogs,” she corrects for the sake of Ahru, whose ears have perked up in interest, “just a loveless pack o’ thugs who wouldn’t have smelt amiss among some, if you catch my drift.”

Rosa’s youngest, Rhoda, scrunches up her face and shifts herself around where she is snuggled beside the two wolves. “Ahru doesn’t smell. Nor does Hrun.”

“That, my dear one, is because they wash regularly! You can bet your bottom these louts didn’t!” Rhoda giggles, and pats both wolves on their shoulders, or near as she can reach.

Bilbo smiles at the picture they make, then looks back to Rosa. “You were saying,” he asks her, “about the Rout?”

“Oh, yes,” Rosa says, and tells him all about the month long siege the Bounders and Shirrifs had put the thugs under, and how on the night of a new moon a small group of them had snuck into the midst of the enemy, slit the throats of all the captains and set fires amongst the rest (He is surprised he is being told all this with a child still in the room, but as Rosa informs him, ‘the bairns can’t be kept blind and deaf forever’).

“They fled south, and we re-learnt and remembered the value of darkness and fire held hand in hand.” She grasps his chin in her hand and pulls his face close to hers, so it is as if her eyes are trying to open him up and fill him with all the heat and shadow of that night. “All history can be learnt from, Bilbo. All you’ve got to do is remember the lessons.”

* * *

Hrun does not like the lessons with Farmer Maggot. Bilbo knows this, but he also knows they are necessary.

Ahru is less diplomatic.

“You be coward,” she tells him, and laughs when he snaps his teeth at her. “Scared of earth-grower, scared of cousin beasts.”

Hrun whines, and hides himself behind Bilbo’s legs.

“Now Ahru, be nice. You weren’t much better when we first met.” Ahru snarls at him, but stops her teasing all the same.

When Famer Maggot’s house appears around a corner, with Maggot and his hounds already waiting on the doorstep, Ahru gives one last disappointed huff toward Hrun and bounds forward to greet them.

Maggot teaches the three of them how to work together. A good deal of it is for Ahru and Hrun’s benefit; how to resist the temptation to eat things they shouldn’t (hobbits, pigs, suspicious mushrooms), how to avoid scaring children (and adults), and how to tell the difference in sound between someone who’s sneaking to steal cookies from the kitchen and someone who’s sneaking to try and kill you (“The distinction,” Maggot says, “is _important_.”).

But some of it is also for Bilbo, who has never lived with an animal in his life.

“You’ve got to listen to them, Mister Baggins, even when you’d rather not. They’re just like people; no good hoping the problem will just go away.”

“Ok,” he says, feeling confident in his listening skills.

“They say ‘I’m hungry’, you feed them, they say ‘I’m tired’, you let them sleep, they say ‘I’m really angry and I fancy ripping that fella’s neck out’, you get them away somewhere where they can let off a bit of steam and not cause no damage to anyone.”

“Right,” he says, confidence draining away.

Three days out of seven they patrol the border of the Shire that covers the Westfarthing, and every second week they spend two days working closer to home, with the Shirrifs of The Hill and Bywater. It’s good, though strange; he’s never been in a position where he’s _had_ to work, so there has always been a slight, well, _carefree_ aspect in those ventures he’s undertaken. But this, new though it all is, already carries a certain responsibility. He cannot dawdle just two minutes longer for another biscuit in the mornings anymore. He cannot get lost in his books and maps anymore. He cannot laugh at jokes about shadows in places they shouldn’t be at odd hours anymore.

Except, apparently, when he must.

He doesn’t get it, the first time some of the others try to explain it to him. It seems ridiculously contradictory.

“You’ve got to blunt yer sharp edges, like,” says one of the Bywater Shirrifs.

“Shake off the uniform with the mud at the door,” a Bounder from the East Farthing tells him.

He doesn’t understand. Surely he is _supposed_ to be more serious?

He still doesn’t understand when, a month into his new role and just beginning to get the hang of it, he finds himself patrolling the White Downs and listening to a very flustered Bounder.

Apparently a group of thugs are trying to cross the Western border of the Shire. Oh dear.

Moloc is a much faster hobbit than Bilbo will ever be, so they agree that while Bilbo heads west to give support to the Bounders already there, Moloc will head east to try and garner some more reinforcements.

Bilbo turns wide eyes on Ahru and Hrun. “Right, let’s sniff them out.”

With a deliberate absence of noise the three of them take off across the downs, following the scent line Moloc left behind. Hackles are raised on wolf and hobbit alike. The rolling hills suddenly become as mountains, each incline as good as vertical and the view across each dip despairingly empty of hobbits.

Finally, after ten minutes of panicked running Hrun catches a new scent on the slow breeze.

“Fear,” he pants, “anger.”

Bilbo nods, too short on breath to spare words, and they turn toward what Bilbo dearly hopes is the source of the smell.

It soon becomes readily apparent that it is.

As the three of them crest a hill, they find laid out below them three Bounders, spread out and standing in front of a war-band. And a war-band it most defiantly is; even from this distance, Bilbo can spy armour on every man, and a weapon on every hip.

_Good gracious. This is not going to end well._

Bilbo all but tumbles down the hill, Ahru and Hrun ahead of him flanking to either side of the trio of Bounders. The Bounder furthest back turns her head ever so slightly, keeping the war-band in her gaze.

“Ah, Baggins. With me.”

He moves level with her, and suddenly finds himself desperately trying to remember her name. Of all the things to think of at a time like this.

“Baggins,” the woman says, and his attention snaps back to her. “Focus.” Bilbo gives a twitch of a nod, and attempts to settle himself. With his breath frantic and his hand shaking where it’s gripping Sting in its sheath, it is not an easy thing. This is very different from wolves or spiders. Dangerously different.

The war-band are deceptively casual in how they stand, but each and every one has their eyes fixed on the hobbits, legs wide for balance and hands never straying far from weapons. One of them tilts his chin at Bilbo, mouth pulled in a sneer.

“Another of you little folk, eh?” Bilbo almost introduces himself, barely stops before saying ‘at your service’. The warrior – and warrior he is, Bilbo has no doubt of that now – gives a deep laugh and looks back to his fellows. “Might as well have brought a child!” Laughter, rough and mocking, rings in Bilbo’s ears.

The hobbit next to him sighs, and though she’s affecting an uncaring air Bilbo can hear the catch in her voice when she speaks. He hopes the war-band can’t.

“You should leave” she says.

“Oh, I don’t think so, pretty little lady. We just want to pass through is all. No harm doing, not from us. Ain’t that right lads!” There is more raucous laughter, and all of the Bounders tense.

“I am not your pretty little anything. Such talk will get you nothing in these parts.”

The laughter trails off, and Bilbo is so fixed on the apparent leader that he fails to notice the rest of the group slowly spreading out to either side.

One of the other Bounders does notice.

Dago Boffin, not yet forty years of age, is the left-most Bounder, and the brashness of his youth shows. He shouts at one of the war-band. “Here, you, get back with the rest of your lot –” There is a sudden scuffle, and Dago leaps back moments before a flash of metal cuts the air where he was just standing.

Oh dear.

Dago unsheathes a short sword and holds it at the ready, and that seems to be all the encouragement the man opposite him needs to start trying to harm him in earnest. Others of the war-band move to surround the lone Bounder, and he has to doge and flit between bodies twice his size lest he find himself gutted.

A sharp voice to Bilbo’s side tears his eyes away.

“Ready up!” She shouts, pulling her bow from her back and nocking an arrow. To their right the third Bounder, Keren, deflects a blow from a sword and retaliates with her heavy mace. Bilbo fumbles with Sting’s pommel, his palms sweaty and hands still shaking. Why did he ever –

_Farmer Maggots trained you for this, you dolt. Think!_

“Scare them!” He hears Ahru and Hrun bark in answer, and the pair begins to circle and snap at the war-band like they’re a herd of startled deer. Some of the war-band are hesitating, not yet committed to a fight. Maybe this can be salvaged. He finally gets Sting out, and moves forward to shield the Bounder behind him as she looses her arrows.

“Leave!” She shouts. “This doesn’t have to get any worse than it is!” Bilbo hopes they do.

He is met by a wide-set warrior. Despite the fear in his bones that rattles him heedlessly he parries the first attack the man gives. Swords clash a few more times, and then air whips at his ear and an arrow embeds itself in his opponents shoulder. The man roars, pushed back by the force of the impact. He shoves Bilbo to the side and thunders past him. Bilbo falls, his shoulder jarring in pain even upon the soft soil, and he turns just as the warrior comes upon the archer.

He leaps upon her, and bears her small frame to the ground. There is a grating scream.

_Matilda,_ he thinks, _her name is Matilda_.

Everything descends into chaos.

Keren roars, ploughing through the enemy. Her mace cracks against the warriors skull, and then into his middle as she pushes his limp for off Matilda. “Through red and white!” She bellows, an old hobbit war-cry.

Dago echoes her. Bilbo can just see him darting toward them, Ahru at his heels. Bilbo, on his feet, turns to Matilda and catches her eyes.

She nods, once.

Right.

“Kill them!” He shouts, and the wolves begin to howl.

He faces the war-band again. The first man upon him is met with Sting through his belly. Bilbo slices through the next’s knees. The wail as he goes down almost sounds musical. It stops abruptly as Sting finds rest in his neck, pushed too deep and sending gouts of deep red splashing across Bilbo’s face.

Hrun heads off the next to come toward Bilbo. Bilbo can see the moment life leaves him as red jaws crush a vulnerable neck.

“Bilbo!” Keren shouts from behind him. “North, let’s go!”

He remembers this tactic from tea with Rosa. The running-fight. Too few to hold the enemy in open battle, so they have to flee and pick off who they can until reinforcements turn up.

If reinforcements can even find them.

Bilbo forms a rearguard with Keren, providing quick slashes to her slow crushing. The wolves mind the flanks. They snap at heels and bring men down. It shall be no good running if they become surrounded. All six of them run frantically. North, zigzagging through hills and dips. The men may have longer legs, but the hobbits know this land like their own skin. They stay ahead. For now.

Bilbo is not sure how long that will continue. His legs are growing tired.

Ahru and Hrun keep howling, trying to signal their position to anyone nearby. Only when Hrun steers them east, ears pricked and nose twitching, does Bilbo have any hope someone is. They crest a hill, and as they tumble down into the valley bellow, Bilbo looks up.

On the ridge in front of them stands a score of hobbits.

Bilbo almost falls over in relief. Keren shouts, dodging a wayward sword.

“ _Loose arrows!_ ”

There is an echoing shout from the ridge, and then a hail of arrows fall just behind them. Screams chase Bilbo up the hill. The hobbits loose another volley, then bows are exchanged for melee weapons and they begin to stamp their feet.

The chant begins just as the six of them make it to the first line.

_Out out out!_

The war-band falter. They had started with just over two dozen men. Now they are reduced to around eighteen. It may not be enough.

_Out out out!_

The leader tries to rally his men as the chant grows louder. A few start to panic.

_OUT OUT OUT!_

The score of hobbits roar.

The war-band breaks ranks.

Bilbo remembers little of the rush back down the hill. Nor of the battle that follows. He knows only five of the war-band survived, and fled. He knows none of his fellows are dead. Wounded, perhaps. He knows they will heal.

He knows the blood soaking him to the skin is not his own.

He vomits messily into the grass.

When he can breathe again he registers Ahru and Hrun beside him, whining, and someone pushing back his hair.

“It’s alright, Bilbo.” It’s Matilda. She’s limping, a great gouge in one leg. “We’re alive. It’s alright.”

The bodies are piled up, and the least injured sent for firewood and oil.

“Not putting the likes of them in our earth,” one of the hobbits says. “Let ‘em burn.”

Bilbo can’t help but agree.

The whole affair becomes known as ‘The Battle of the White Downs’, not well known to the common hobbit, though vaguely recognised, but well known indeed among the Bounders and Shirrifs. The details are immortalised in ‘The Bone-Bound Book’, a collection of the history of the protectors of the Shire.

Bilbo’s infamy fades a bit, but his welcome among the Bounders doesn’t.

He still gets very severe frowns from Bodo Proudfoot.

* * *

For two weeks after, Bilbo tries to maintain the exact same routine as before. No time for lollygagging, nor unsavoury jokes.

No time to deal with the nightmares, nor stress levels that are threatening to send him screaming all the way to Bree.

Eventually, Rosa sits him down and explains to him what the others all failed to.

“You watch the edge of places now,” she murmurs over a cup of soothing tea, “those empty spaces where unwanted things try to creep in. It’s no’ an easy thing, and can make your heart an’ soul a barren place. Difficult for love to grow.”

“Love?”

She chuckles, but it is dry and aged. Not entirely mirthless, but like she’s been told an old joke that’s growing tired.

“Hobbits. We’re called ‘lovers of earth’, aren’t we? Well, we’re lovers of other things too. Good food, fine company. Simple pleasures.”

Bilbo makes a noise of agreement.

“Why then, if we no longer have _love_ , are we no longer hobbits?”

Ah. Now he gets it.

Rosa sighs, and smiles at whatever it is she sees on his face. “We are made rough by life, as we safeguard that which is soft. So we have to take extra care to _remember_ that softness, when we can.”

“I understand,” he says. And it’s the truth.

The next day, he spends an extra ten minutes after breakfast nibbling on biscuits. Just for the sake of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Through white and red!' is a war-cry inspired by searching online. I like to think of the red as blood and the white as bone. So...well, you get it.  
> 'Out out out.' is apparently an old English war-cry used by King Harolds men? Battle of 1066? Not sure, but also very hobbity.
> 
> The violence may seem very un-hobbity, but they are meant to be based of rural English folk. And we do have militia, and that whole stiff upper lip thing. I based my imaginings off of that, and the canon occurrences of hobbits-at-war.
> 
> Most hobbit ladies seem to have names that come from flowers or precious stones. For the Bounder/Shirriff women, I felt their parents might want to name them for things other than beauty. Hence Matilda (mighty in battle) and Keren (glorious dignity). Hopefully they still sound like hobbit names.
> 
> Criticism is always welcome.


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